The Monster in The Fairytale
by graveyardwitch
Summary: Johnlock Parentlock AU. After the events in 'The Reichenbach Fall" John and Sherlock have made a new life together, a life that includes their son Hamish. But then the past catches up with one of them and Hamish is kidnapped. With their relationship under increasing strain they must solve the mystery of who took their son..while Hamish must use his wits in a fight for survival.
1. Chapter 1-Nothing He Could Stand To Lose

First off, this is Slash-If you don't like it then don't read. Also, I am the queen of angst so be prepared. If you don't like the story then don't read it, no one is forcing you to and god knows there are enough other stories on here for you to read. Just don't post nasty comments-Don't be that person. That said, constructive feedback is always appreciated. Actually, I'm a total comment whore so please take the time to review. I'm a latecomer to this fandom and this is my first Sherlock story. I want to do a profile pic for this but haven't quite worked out how to use photoshop yet. In fact, I'm kind of praying someone will fall in love with this story and offer to make me one. If it helps your imagination, in my head I've cast Asa Butterfield as Hamish and Michael Fassbender as 'Sir'. Sherlock is not my property it belongs to the BBC, sueing me will get you nothing but a load of books and a grumpy cat. Oh and our kidnapper? Not Moriarty. Anyway, let's get this show on the road, shall we?

Chapter One-Nothing He Could Stand to Lose

John Watson tossed another pile of sticks into the grate and leaned back in his armchair, turning to watch as outside frost formed at the corners of the windowpane and raindrops chased each other across the glass. It had been twelve years now, give or take, twelve years since Sherlock had faked his death and they had moved under cover of darkness to this cottage on the edge of Harberton, a small village in Northumberland inside the national park and surrounded by woodland; eleven years since they had found a nice middle-aged woman with five children of her own to be their surrogate; eleven years since Hamish had been born.

"So the first rule for answering a quadratic equation is..?"

"That what we do to one side we must always do to the other."

"Yes, that's correct."

He looked up. Across the room Hamish sat hunched over the desk, his school books spread out in front of him. Beside him sat Sherlock, watching their son's pencil carefully as it scratched across the paper. They shared Homework duties-He helped with the Humanities while Mathematics and the sciences were more Sherlock's area of expertise. As he watched Hamish looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. He smiled back.

They'd agreed that they would both donate a sample, because then they would never know who had fathered their child and it would feel more like he belonged to them both; but as John had watched Hamish grow he'd seen more and more of Sherlock in him-the same thick unruly thatch of dark hair, the same piercing ice-blue eyes…and then there was the fact that at eleven years old he was already studying for a GCSE in maths. He didn't know whether these observations made him sad that the boy wasn't biologically his…Or whether he adored him all the more for so closely resembling the man he loved.

"Hey, come on. Concentrate." Sherlock tapped the page of the textbook between them with an insistent finger and Hamish gave him one more smile before looking back down at his work. Sherlock shot him a disapproving glare. "Don't distract him John."

He held up his hands. "I wasn't! He looked at me!" Hamish giggled and Sherlock shot him a look that could have soured milk. "O.k." He turned his attention to the fire. It had been complicated…New jobs, new papers, a whole new identity for Sherlock, but… _These eleven years…_He reflected…_These past eleven years…Have been the best of my entire life. _ He listened to them talk.

"All done?"

"Ummm hmmm. I like quadratic equations. It's all just logic really."

"Exactly."

"Father?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course. An enquiring mind is essential for all human endeavour."

"What's a faggot?"

And with that one word, the quiet comfort of the evening was shattered. John whipped round in his chair in shock. "That's a swear word Hamish! Don't say it!" Then he saw the fright in his son's eyes and felt guilty. He hadn't meant his tone to be so harsh.

"I'm sorry Dad." Hamish spoke in a whisper. "I won't say it again." He turned back to packing away his exercise books. Beside him Sherlock hadn't even looked up from the homework he was checking.

"It's a derogatory term for men who form romantic and sexual relationships with other men- homosexuals-such as your dad and I. It's an American term, first thought to have been coined in 1914…"

"Sherlock…"

"What?" His confusion was genuine. "The boy asked." Of course he wouldn't know. John sighed. After explaining this, maybe he should take Hamish aside and explain the term 'Asperger's Syndrome.'

"Hamish, come here." Hamish did. He was small for his age and John gathered him easily into his lap, letting him tuck his head beneath his chin as he had when he was a toddler. Sherlock was the parent for homework and discoveries and honest answers for difficult questions, but he'd always been the parent Hamish went to for comfort and sympathy, for those times when he just wanted to be hugged. "I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you."

"It's o.k."

Sherlock moved to stand by the fire, watching their son curiously. "Where did you hear that term Hamish?"

"This kid at School-Oscar Lytton. He said that you were both faggots and that I must be one too. He said that you were evil and disgusting. Then he spat at me."

"And what did you do?"

"I hit him-hard."

"Ah…" John sighed. "That would explain the letter requesting a teacher conference that I found in your blazer pocket."

Sherlock shrugged. "The boy insulted his parents so he hit him-seems a reasonable course of action to me. I fail to see what there is to discuss."

"He can't just hit other children Sherlock!"

"Why?"

"You're not though?" Hamish looked up at them both appealingly. "You're not evil, are you? It's not evil to have two dads, is it? Is it? Father!"

Sherlock moved to crouch in front of him. "No, of course it isn't."

"Then why would he say it?"

"What have I told you about other people Hamish?"

"That the vast majority of them are incredibly stupid."

"Exactly." He ruffled their son's hair while above him John rolled his eyes. "Now come on. It's time for bed."

"Aww father!"

"It's not up for discussion. Goodnight." He pushed the thick dark fringe aside and kissed his forehead, then they both watched him snatch up his schoolbag and leave the room, probably to sit on the staircase and listen in, John guessed.

"You need to stop telling him that."

He turned to Sherlock who leaned against the mantelpiece once more and shrugged. "Why not? It's true."

"No it isn't! And if you keep saying it to him then he's going to say it to someone much bigger than he is in that school and he'll get himself beaten up!"

"Why?"

"Because…because people don't like to hear how stupid they are!" How could he have loved Sherlock this long and still be this frustrated by him? He stood up and pushed past him. "I'm going to bed myself. I'm suddenly very tired." He reached the hallway and added loudly. "AND THERE BETTER NOT BE ANYONE OUT OF BED UP THERE BEING NOSEY!" The frantic thump of running feet above his head told him he'd been right. He left Sherlock behind him, staring bewildered into the fire.

He was in bed reading when Sherlock entered. He put down his book as his partner kicked off his shoes, and began to unbutton his shirt, his back turned to him. "We're going to have to talk to him Sherlock."

"About what?"

"About everything…About how he came to be. About his mother, about us…He's a good kid Sherlock and he's accepted it all-having to call you a different name outside the house, not being able to have friends visit…"

"He doesn't have any friends."

"Well maybe he would have if it weren't for us. Jesus, being the only kid in the class with two dads…That's hard, that's a hell of a lot to put on an eleven year old. He's different Sherlock. We've MADE him different, we've made him stand out, and now that the other children are starting to notice we have to make him aware of how people might view us, tell him what they might say, teach him how to handle it without hitting out…"

"The pressure to conform is merely a means of social control…"

"Well HE doesn't know that." John hesitated, trying to think of a way of making Sherlock understand…Then it hit him. "Don't you remember being bullied at school?" Sherlock didn't turn around but he paused in the act of taking off his shirt, just for a moment, and John fancied he saw him flinch just a little. "Because I do. The fear, the humiliation, the isolation…And all the while you just kept thinking "Why me?"…"

Sherlock turned, tossing his shirt to the floor irritably. "…Because I was more intelligent than them and they knew it." He sat down on the end of the bed with a thump and John smiled inwardly. He'd obviously stirred up some painful memories.

"Yes. And I was bullied because I was the quiet nerdy kid they all knew was gay. But we didn't know their reasons why at the time. And so they could hurt us."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "I see…I've been thoughtless towards him. Again. I got it wrong. Again." And John worried he'd somehow gone too far.

"Shhh." He leaned forward to gently kiss the point of his bare shoulder. "Hamish knows you love him. He just needs to be reassured that he is part of a loving family, told how people will view us but that their version of 'normal' isn't necessarily right, that he has no need to be ashamed. We need to give him the confidence to stand up for himself. That way their words can't hurt him…And I won't have to go to any more teacher conferences."

He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile, but he didn't smile back. "I'm glad for you John. I don't know how to relate to the boy. I don't know how to be a father."

John sighed and climbed from beneath the covers to sit beside him, sliding an arm around his bare shoulders. "Yes, you do. You've been there Sherlock-through the night feeds, the colds, the scraped knees. You do his homework with him. You taught him to read when he was four. You take him out on bug hunting adventures in the woods. You do chemistry experiments with him that I'm still not certain aren't too dangerous because every time I pass that room there seems to be a bang followed by you both cheering, and when you tell him how intelligent he is I can see him all puffing up with pride. Yes, yes you are a difficult, stubborn, distinctly odd man, but you are unique and he admires you. And he loves you Sherlock…" He caught his chin, turning his face so he could look into those aquamarine eyes. "Just like I love you."

And then he leaned forward, muffling any further protestations with a kiss. He pushed his lover back onto the bed and finished undressing him, before tracing the familiar contours of his body first with his hands, and then with his mouth, until he felt Sherlock moan and shudder beneath him, until his thighs parted so that John could crawl between them and make love to him.

When John woke the room was dark and Sherlock's side of the bed was empty. Hearing the low mutter of voices, he slid from beneath the sheets, dressed, and wondered out onto the narrow landing. Warm light spilled from the half-open door opposite so he tip-toed over and peered inside…And the world went soft.

Inside Hamish's bedroom- littered with discarded clothes, books, and half-finished experiments-Sherlock sat on Hamish's bed, leaning back against the pillows as Hamish rested his head on his shoulder. One hand stroked Hamish's thick black hair gently, while the other danced in front of the glow of the bedside lamp, making shadow-puppets with its long graceful fingers for the boy to watch as they talked.

"Soooo…You and Dad solved crimes like superheroes or something."

"Well no, superheroes don't exist."

"But you did solve crimes?"

"Yes."

"And you faked your own death and that's why Dad calls you Matthew when we're in the village and stuff?"

"Yes."

"And you love Dad? Even though he's a man like you, and even though stupid people say it's wrong because they read it in the Bible which is nothing but some old book they say was written by God but it wasn't because God doesn't exist and it was really written by a bunch of old priests and scholars thousands of years ago?"

John had to stifle a laugh at that.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. And it's not wrong. All my life I've never loved anything else…except you of course."

"I love you too." Hamish reached for Sherlock's hand, twining his little fingers through his long ones. "Will you read to me?"

"Why? You can read."

"Yeah, I know…but I'm tired and I like it when you do. Please?"

He looked up at Sherlock pleadingly and Sherlock gave in, as John knew he would. "Alright then. What are you reading at the moment?" Hamish lifted a thick book from his cluttered bedside table and handed it to him. Sherlock hesitated before opening it.

"And Hamish?"

"Umm hmm?"

"Those boys… Don't cry in front of them, don't get angry and don't lash out. I know it's hard. But bullies want a reaction, don't give it to them. If you do, then they've won. So next time, and there will be a next time, be strong and stay calm and silent. Nothing angers a bully more than silence."

"O.k Father."

Sherlock turned his attention back to the book and sighed. " 'The Lord of the Rings' again? Hamish, this is a fairy-tale. I'll never understand why you love it so much."

"I don't know…I guess it's because, with Frodo, he's just a hobbit but he's the hero…It's like…even the smallest person matters. And I'm small…"

At that Sherlock's lips twisted into a smile and he turned to plant a soft kiss on Hamish's dark head. "And you matter. Very much."

And he didn't know quite why, but something about the way Sherlock said it, the conviction in his voice, made tears prick the corners of John's eyes. Unwilling to disturb their quiet intimacy he closed the door softly and crept downstairs to put on the kettle for a cup of tea. As it boiled he turned to gaze through the kitchen window into the back garden and the woods beyond. It had stopped raining and the winter night was crisp and still, almost as if holding its breath, silvery moonlight making the overhanging trees and bushes seem almost ghostly. He looked up at the moon itself-A waning moon. He'd known an Islamic soldier in Afghanistan who placed a lot of importance on the phases of the moon. A waning moon, he'd said, was a time of endings, a time of loss, a time to get rid of things that no longer serve you. But, for the first time, there was nothing he needed to get rid of, nothing he could stand to lose. The kettle finished boiling and he tugged the curtains closed and turned to fetch milk and a tea cup.

Outside, in the dark, just at the edge where the garden met the wild wood, a figure lurked, watching. And when the light in the kitchen went out it turned its attention to the one that was still burning in the bedroom window above….


	2. Chapter 2-Into the Woods

And here's the next chapter. Please, please review and let me know what you think. It only takes a few moments but I'm a frustrated writer in a rubbish job and damp flat so it really brightens my day.

Chapter two-Into the Woods

"Violence of any kind is unacceptable in my school Dr Watson."

"Well, you know…Kids fight…And Hamish was provoked."

"Be that as it may, he was the one who hit out, not Oliver. And I can't ignore that…"

"Oh no, of course not…but surely_ you_ agree that the other boy should also be punished for what he said?"

Dad was getting angry, Hamish could tell. He always got very, very polite when he was annoyed…Just before he started shouting. He glanced down at his father's hands. They were clenched into fists beneath the table, the knuckles white. He wondered if he would have to change schools if his Dad yelled at the Headmistress…that would be brilliant. He looked up at Mrs Thompson. She was a tall thick-set woman, with a broad face and severe brown bob. He'd never liked her. She always stared at him with thinly veiled revulsion like he was some sort of insect…And all because he'd corrected her grammar just the once. O.k, it _had _been in assembly, and o.k the rest of the school had been there, but surely the headmistress of a primary school should at least know how to speak properly? Unfortunately Mrs Thompson hadn't seen it that way and the next day he'd been sent to the school psychologist-who had pronounced him to have an I.Q of at least 140 and suggested that they promoted him to the inspectors at the next OFSTED inspection as a shining example of the school's numeracy programme. Mrs Thompson hadn't liked that one bit and had had it in for him ever since.

"Oliver has been spoken to…But Dr Watson, Hamish struck him so hard that he knocked out one of his front teeth. A bit excessive, don't you think?"

Oops. Hamish felt himself flush as his dad turned to fix him with a glare. "Yes. Yes, he left that bit out, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "Well…I said I hit him _hard. _And that tooth was already loose so it was hardly my fault it came out Dad, he asked for it! It wasn't just that one time, it's ALL the time! He won't leave me alone! Nobody will."

But one look at the expression on his dad's face, the way his eyes darkened and his jaw set into a firm line, told him that it was no use. He gave Hamish his own patented "_We'll talk about this when we get home"_ look and turned back to at Mrs Thompson. "So, what is his punishment?"

"At the moment he'll be taken out of circulation at break-time and lunch-time and I want him to write an apology letter to Oliver…"

"WHAT?! NO WAY! DAD!"

"Hamish…"

"THAT'S NOT FAIR! HE SHOULD BE THE ONE WHO SAYS SORRY!"

"Hamish!"

There was a warning in his dad's voice. He slumped back into his seat and folded his arms across his chest as Mrs Thompson continued.

"…And if there are any more violent incidents I'm afraid that I am going to have ask you to find an alternative school."

"But there isn't another primary school within ten miles… You can't…"

"Well he'll have to behave himself then, won't he?" She cut him off. "Thank you for meeting with me Dr Watson." She stood, making it quite clear that the meeting was over. Hamish hopped down from his seat as they shook hands. "And just to let you know for the future, I usually prefer both parents to attend parent-teacher conferences."

"Yes well, my partner is a writer and he has a deadline to meet." That was a lie. Hamish had sat at the kitchen table that morning and ate Coco Pops while above him they'd argued about Sherlock attending. The row had gone on so long he'd almost been late for school. He wished that Father had won-_he _wouldn't make him apologise.

"I understand." She showed them to the door. "Your _partner._" She hesitated in the doorway, spitting the word out contemptuously. "You know Dr Watson; while Oscar's language was, indeed, unacceptable, I cannot help but wonder if Hamish would be such a problem if his home life was a bit more…conventional. A boy needs a mother, don't you think? Hamish, show your daddy out and then go back to class. Goodbye Dr Watson."

Mother? That was the last thing Hamish wanted-He already had two parents angry with him as it was.

"Now, you look here!" His father turned just in time for the door to slam in his face. Shaking with rage, he turned on his heel and marched off down the school corridor so fast that Hamish had to jog to keep up with him, muttering under his breath. "Bloody insufferable woman! Bigoted nasty old witch…"

"So, I don't have to write the letter then?"

"Oh you're writing that letter!"

"But why? You said she was a bigot."

He stopped so abruptly that Hamish almost bumped into him. He turned to look down at him and Hamish was surprised to see, not anger in his expression, but frustration. "Because…because Hamish, you didn't tell me the whole truth so I ended up looking like an idiot in there. And because if you don't it will only cause more trouble."

"But he started it!"

"Yeah, well apparently, you finished it!"

"But…But it's not fair!" He wanted to tell his Dad that he couldn't write that letter, couldn't bare the satisfaction in Oliver Lytton's smug fat face when he handed it over, that he knew that with that one letter Oliver Lytton and all the other children would know that none of the teachers really cared what they said or did to him, that that letter might as well be a green card to bully him even worse than before because it proved that he couldn't do anything about it. But he didn't know how to put all that into words. Hot tears of frustration and hurt pride stung the corners of his eyes. "He started it! He always starts it! I'm not saying sorry!"

His Dad sighed. "Hamish, you need to grow up and…"

That stung. He was his dad; he was supposed to be on his side. "I HATE YOU!" He spat the words at him, watching the hurt flash in his father's eyes as they hit their target. John sighed.

"Oh Hamish, just listen…"

"Why?! You won't!"

"Look Hamish, I'll pick you up later and we'll talk about this…" His voice was soothing, cajoling, but Hamish was too angry now to be soothed. He reached out for him but Hamish smacked his hand away. "NO! I HATE YOU! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"

He turned and ran down the corridor, ignoring his Dad shouting for him to come back.

He stopped outside the classroom door to wipe his eyes and nose on his blazer sleeve. If any of them could tell that he'd been crying then they'd have a field day. He pushed the door open and breathed a sigh of relief. All the other children were sat quietly at their tables, heads stooped over their work. Miss Stewart looked up as he entered and smiled at him.

"Sorry I'm late Miss."

"That's alright pet. We're doing division anyway." She winked at him. "I've left some past papers on your desk."

He liked Miss Stewart. She was always nice and calm and encouraging, and she always called him 'pet' in her soft Newcastle accent. She'd told him that she thought he was very bright, and she liked to challenge him by bringing in difficult equations for him to solve. Sometimes, she even let him go into other classes and help the weaker ones with their work. The other kids called him 'teacher's pet' but that didn't really bother him. It was just nice to have someone in the whole school was actually kind to him. "Thank you Miss."

He made his way over to his seat at the red table, passing Oliver Lytton at the blue table as he did so. Everyone knew the blue table was where the thick kids sat while the red table was for the smart kids, but somehow that didn't stop Oliver Lytton being the most popular kid in the class. It was one of the many things about his classmates that totally bewildered Hamish. As he passed Oliver glared at him through his blonde curls, but didn't say anything. He sat down at his seat, picked up his pencil and opened the GCSE paper.

"Hamish is getting ex-pell-ed!" It was a sing-song whisper. He looked up. All the other kids were still working. He went back to his paper. "Hamish is getting ex-pell-ed!" He looked up again. Still no one looked up at him. He reached for his calculator. "Hamish is getting ex-pell-ed!"

Oliver put up his hand. "Can I sharpen my pencil Miss?"

"Yes, of course you can."

Hamish tried to concentrate on working out the square root of 81 as Oliver crossed the room to the wastepaper basket behind him. "It's a sin you know." He hissed under his breath, just loud enough for Hamish to hear. "What your dads do together. That's what my nan says. She says they're gonna go to hell 'cause they're perverts."

Hamish didn't know what the word 'pervert' meant, but since Oliver had said it he was pretty sure it was nasty. He glanced up to make sure Miss Stewart was occupied with marking at her desk before twisting around to face him. "My father says there is no such place as hell. He says that the concepts of hell and of sin are theological constructs designed to exert social control. He says that, while Marx's communist ideals were impractical, his view of religion as the opium of the people was thoroughly sound."

Oliver's lips visibly moved as he tried, and failed, to understand this. Then his eyes lit up as he finally thought of a response that wouldn't make him look stupid. "Oh yeah? _Which _father?"

At that, a titter ran through the class and Hamish felt his cheeks growing hot. "Shut up."

Suddenly someone kicked him in the shin. Hard. He turned to look at the boy sitting opposite him-Jack Blackledge. He'd never done anything to him-but Oliver didn't like him and that, it seemed, was good enough for Jack. "Look at you saying all those big words. "Stop showing off, Freak!"

"Yeah." Said the Chinese girl beside him-Yee Ling Wong. "You're such a freak!"

"Freak!" Michael Jennings, the black boy who sat beside Jack sneered.

"Hamish is such a freak!"

"Quit being such a freak Hamish!"

"Freak!"

"Freak!"

"Freak!"

The whispers seemed to be coming from everywhere now. He leaned lower over his paper, trying to concentrate on every word of the question he was reading until he couldn't hear them anymore. Be strong, that's what Father had said, be silent…And don't let them see you cry. He read the question out slowly to himself in an attempt to drown them out. "What is the square root of…"

Then Oliver leaned over and hissed in his ear. "You're a total freak Hamish. And your faggot daddies are going to hell."

And Hamish snapped. It was one thing them making fun of him, but they didn't get to be nasty about his parents. No one did. He jumped from his chair and dived for Oliver, knocking him backwards onto the floor, where they rolled, grappling with each other, each of them grabbing, scratching and slapping, snarling at each other with their teeth bared, like angry cubs.

"YOU TAKE THAT BACK!"

"NO!"

"TAKE IT BACK!"

"FREAK!"

"RETARD!"

FAGGOT!"

"STOP SAYING THAT!"

"BOYS! BOYS, STOP THIS! STOP IT!" Miss Stewart ran from her desk, as the other children ran from their tables to watch.

"FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!"

"ALL OF YOU! GET BACK TO YOUR SEATS! NOW! BOYS, STOP THIS! I WILL NOT HAVE FIGHTING IN MY CLASS!"

Hamish was trying to throttle Oliver with his own school tie when he suddenly felt a hand close on his collar, and found himself being tugged upright by a surprisingly strong Miss Stewart. "HAMISH WATSON-HOLMES! HOW DARE YOU START A FIGHT IN MY CLASS! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!"

He glared down at Oliver who was still lying on the ground panting. "He started it Miss! He called me a freak and said that my parents were faggots!"

"Oliver?"

Oliver struggled upright. "I didn't! He just leapt on me! He's a psycho!"

Miss Stewart turned to look at the crowd of children. "Yee Ling?"

"Yes Miss?"

"You were sitting right beside Hamish when this happened. Did you hear Oliver say anything to him?"

Yee Ling smiled innocently. "No Miss. Hamish just went crazy."

"LIAR!"

"Hamish!" Miss Stewart turned to look through the crowd again. "Jack? Did you hear anything?"

"No." Jack smirked at him. "I didn't hear anything Miss."

"LIAR!" Hamish wriggled out of her grasp and turned to face her. "MISS THEY'RE ALL LYING! THEY WERE ALL CALLING ME A FREAK! EVERY ONE OF THEM!"

"Hamish, don't shout at me!"

And when he looked at her he could see in her eyes that she didn't believe him, that his favourite teacher didn't believe him, and now she was going to tell Mrs Thompson, and he would get expelled, and he would never get his GCSE maths, and he would never find another school that would let him in, and Dad and Father were going to be SO furious, and it was all so unfair, none of it was his fault but no one believed him and, unlike Oliver, he didn't know how to make them, and he'd never felt so alone…

"Hamish, I think we need to go see Mrs Thompson."

"No, Miss! Please!"

"Oh look!" Oliver shouted. "He's going to cry!"

And suddenly it seemed like everyone was laughing at him, the laughter growing louder and louder.

"He's going to cry!"

"Cry-baby!"

"Hamish is getting ex-pell-ed!"

"Seven A! Stop it!"

"Go on Hamish, cry!"

"NO!" He wasn't going to let them see him cry. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. So instead he ran, pushing through the jeering crowd and through the classroom door which hit the wall with a bang, ignoring Miss Stewart as she shouted after him to stop, their laughter ringing in his ears. He ran down the corridor and out into the playground before skidding to a halt, unsure of what to do next. He could go home…But Miss Stewart was probably phoning home right that second and all he'd meet there would be Dad and Father and a lot of trouble. He turned and looked around him.

The edge of the playground bordered the woods. He liked the woods. They were deep, and dark, and safe, he played in them for hours…and he knew them better than anyone else in the village. He'd be ok in the woods.

He ran across the playground-past the climbing frame, the swings, the sand-pit and the slide-and plunged between the trees.

And behind him, un-noticed, a figure detached itself from the shadow of the school building and followed.

So what awaits Hamish in the woods? Nothing good, that's for sure. Please take the time to review as reviews feed my muse.


	3. Chapter 3-The Big, Bad Wolf

Ok kids, here we go again. Now this chapter does depict a kidnapping so if you are easily upset don't read. But if you do then please, please take the time to review and let me know what you think and I will send so much positive energy your way! As always, I don't own Sherlock it is property of the BBC and sueing me will now get you a cat that is not only grumpy but flatulent. I've put up a profile pic for this but am still look for an awesome graphics maker to make me one so if you fancy it then please PM me.

Chapter 3-The Big Bad Wolf

He ran and ran until his breath burned in his chest and his vision was too clouded by tears to see where he was going; then he collapsed onto the grass beneath an ancient oak tree, hugged his knees to his chest, and sobbed. It was so unfair, and he was in so much trouble, and he didn't know how to fix it, and the other kids were right…He was a freak. He knew algebra, and how to identify wolf spiders, and how to work out where a person was from simply by looking at the stains on their jeans…But he didn't know how to make friends. He didn't know why some people liked to be nasty for no reason, or how to stop them. He didn't know how people _worked_.

"Hamish? Hamish Watson-Homes?" The voice was gentle and full of concern. He wiped the tears away with his hands and looked up.

The man who stood in front of him was about the same age as his parents, he guessed. He was tall, not fat but not skinny, with light blue eyes, short golden brown hair and stubble on his chin. He wore a backpack on one shoulder and a kind smile. "You're Dr Watson, the G.P's, son aren't you?"

He nodded, sniffling. "Who're you?"

"I'm Mr Anderson, the Teaching Assistant with Mrs Hawthorne's class. Mrs Thompson sent me to come and find you and bring you back."

"Oh…" The man was vaguely familiar. He thought he might have seen him around the school, but his mind was too full of frustration and upset to think where. "I'm not going back."

The man sat down beside him with a sigh. "Look Hamish, people are just worried about you…"

"No they're not! I know when I'm in trouble!" He fought back a sob. "But it wasn't my fault! Oscar always gets away with everything!"

"Here." The man fumbled in his packet and handed him a tissue. "Why don't you just come back with me and you can give your side of the story…"

"No one will listen!" He shook his head, wiping at his eyes and nose. "I'm not going back."

The man's voice was cajoling. "Well you can't hide in the woods forever. Come on, it'll be dark soon. Why don't you just come with me and…"

"No!" Hamish glared up at the man defiantly, putting on what his Dad called his 'resolve face'. "I'm not going back there! You can't make me!"

"Alright."

"Huh?" He hadn't expected that.

"Alright. If you don't want to go back then I can't force you." The man stood up and turned to fix him with a conspiratual smile. "Tell you what, I've lost my mobile, but if I take you on home to your Dad then will you let me use your house phone to call the school?"

He hesitated. "ummm, I don't know…"

"I'll even put in a good word with your parents, make sure you don't get into trouble. How does that sound?" He held out his hand to him

.

"O.k. Deal." Hamish took it.

But Hamish's stomach still ached with a sense of dread that he couldn't seem to shake, and he didn't know why. _Listen to your gut…_That's what Father always said. Something didn't feel right, but he didn't know what…As they walked through the woods together he glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. _Don't just look, observe…_ He was wearing jeans, worn at the knees, black boots and a black sweater…A bit too casual for work wear. They were also clean-no felt tip marks or paint splatters- but Mrs Hawthorne taught the P3's and they were always doing art. He carried his backpack on his left shoulder which meant he was left-handed, but there was no ink on the side of his left hand which meant he hadn't been writing that day. But the Teaching Assistants wrote all the time. He seemed calm on the surface, but the way he gripped Hamish's hand tightly and the way he kept glancing back the way they'd came suggested he was nervous about something. And there was something else…He'd called himself Mr Anderson, but all the Teaching Assistants Hamish knew at the school were called by their first names. He mentally ran through all of them, trying to picture each of their faces…Sean, the bald one- he was with 7B; then there was Kate, the ginger one who looked after the P1's. Megan and Hannah were the nursery school assistants, and then there was Terry with the acne who was with 6A, and Claire with the blonde hair who looked after a deaf boy in 6B…And then there was Tracy. Fat, giggly Tracy who all the girls loved…Tracy with the bright pink lipstick…Tracy was with…Tracy was with…He froze. Tracy was with 3A…Mrs Hawthorne's class.

The man turned as he wrenched his hand away. "You're lying." And he could see from the shocked expression on the man's face that he was right. He began to back away from him, panic bubbling up through his chest. "You're lying. You're not a teaching assistant at all."

For a moment the man seemed about to try and argue with him…Then his eyes narrowed and he lunged for him. Hamish dodged deftly out of his reach and ran, weaving through the trees with his heart pounding against his ribs.

"HAMISH!"

He could hear the crash of branches behind him as the man gave chase. But he was smaller, he knew the woods better, he could lose him…

"HAMISH, STOP!"

And then there was a small, sickening click, and Hamish skidded to a halt as he realised that he knew that click, had heard that click many times…after all, both his fathers owned a gun.

He turned.

The man stood about four feet away from him with a 9mm handgun, the muzzle pointed right at him and his finger on the trigger. And he was suddenly so scared that he couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. The man walked slowly toward him, and his expression was different now, all traces of kindness and concern gone. Instead he looked at him with the cruel detachment a wolf has for its prey. Hamish swallowed. He didn't want to know the answer, but he had to ask the question.

"Are-are you going to kill me?"

"Not if you're good." The man crouched down to his level and ran the muzzle of the gun slowly down his cheek, and he gasped as the ice cold metal touched his skin. "Blue eyes, black hair and such pale skin…Are you sure you're John Watson's son?"

He nodded slowly. "He's my daddy." And he'd never wanted his daddy more than at that moment. The man smiled at that, a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. "W-what are you..?"

"Shhh…" The man placed a finger over his lips. "Now to keep you quiet." He dropped his backpack onto the ground and began to rifle through it. Hamish looked around him. They were much deeper into the woods now and the trees grew so close together that they almost blocked out the fading daylight. There was no one around, no one to see what was happening…No one to help him. "Ah, here we are." The man held up something for him to see. It was a black oblong shaped object, made from plastic or rubber or something. Four leather straps dangled from it. Hamish didn't know what it was. The man moved behind him and Hamish flinched as he felt his breath, hot on the back of his neck. "Open your mouth." He did and the black oblong was shoved between his teeth. It filled his mouth and he strained against it like a horse with a bit, his cry of fright muffled to a grunt. The man chuckled as he buckled the first set of straps tightly behind his head. He then moved to crouch in front of him, tilting his head up so that he could buckle the second set of straps tightly beneath his chin. He then sat back on his heels to admire his handiwork. "A muzzle for a pup."

Hamish shook his head, tears pricking his eyes. The taste of rubber in his mouth was horrible and made him feel sick. The leather of the straps was stiff and cut into his skin. He felt as if he might choke, wanted to cough, but the strap beneath his chin kept his jaw firmly shut. He reached up to touch one of the straps where it dug into his cheek and the man slapped his hand away with the muzzle of the gun. "Ah ah, don't touch it. You have to be good, remember?" He nodded miserably as the man stood and pointed the gun at him once more. "Now, take off your clothes." Hamish stared. "Shoes, socks, all of it. NOW!" At his bark Hamish jumped. He undressed with trembling fingers, dropping his school uniform into a pile at his feet and toeing off his shoes and socks. He stood in his underwear, hugging himself and shivering, from cold or fear he didn't know. He'd heard about men like this, whispers in the playground about men who liked to take little boys and do dirty things to them. What those dirty things were though no one really seemed to know. They'd even had a nurse come in to school and tell them how grown-ups weren't allowed to touch them in the place that their swimsuits covered, how if a grown-up did they had to tell someone…Maybe that's why the man had put the muzzle thing on him, to keep him quiet while he did the dirty things to him because it would hurt, maybe he'd brought the gun to shoot him after so he wouldn't tell. Silent tears began to roll down his cheeks at the thought. He just wanted to go home…

"Here." The man reached into the backpack and tossed a bundle of cloth at him. "Put these on. Hurry up!"

It was clothes-A pair of trousers and a V-necked T-shirt in bright orange scratchy fabric. They were far too big for him so that he had to pull the drawstring waist of the trousers as tight as it would go and roll up the legs. Once he was dressed the man lifted one final item from his backpack-a pair of handcuffs. And as his hands were tugged behind his back and the cuffs clicked into place Hamish knew for certain that this man was taking him away. The fear made him dizzy. He looked around at the trees. _Please, please someone see this…Please someone help me…_But there was no one to see.

The man grabbed the back of his neck and dug the muzzle of the gun between his shoulder blades.

"Walk."

He stumbled forward.

They walked for an hour through the wood, Hamish stumbling and sliding and cutting the soles of his bare feet on rocks and thorns until he could feel the blood squishing between his toes with every step. He was crying hard now, but as his sobs were silenced the man didn't seem to care. When they emerged through the trees onto the narrow back road it was dusk. Somehow Hamish wasn't surprised to see the black car sitting waiting, but he still kicked and fought as the man lifted him into the boot and earned a slap across the face for his trouble. Inside the boot was dark and cramped and utterly terrifying. He lay on his side with his eyes closed and listened as the engine roared to life, as the tires skidded on the tarmac…And then another noise…A low hum…Traffic… Other cars, other people! He opened his eyes with a start as sirens squealed past-Police! He had to make someone notice…The lights! The tail lights! If he managed to break one maybe the police would stop the car. He wriggled down, feeling with his feet for the plastic until he found it. He then kicked back with his heels as hard as he could.

Nothing.

No matter how hard he kicked the plastic held. But there had to be people out there. Maybe they were driving through a town or village, maybe there were people walking on the street who would hear him…He rolled onto his back and drew his feet up to his chest.

"UMMMMMM! UMMMMMMM!" He kicked the lid of the boot hard, over and over. "UMMMMMMMM! UMMMMMM! UMMMMMMMM!"

The car swerved and the engine roared as it accelerated.

"UMMMMMMMM! UMMMMMMM!"

Suddenly the car seemed to skid to a halt. The lid of the boot was thrown open and he screwed up his eyes as the orange light of a streetlamp streamed in. Hamish's heart sank like a stone as the man glared furiously down at him, one hand on the lid and the other holding a coil of thick rope. Behind him the road was dark…and empty. Another back road.

"You little shit!" He slapped him again before catching hold of his ankles and tying them tightly. "You really are Sherlock Holme's kid!" He looped the rope over a metal bar inside the boot and pulled it tight, pulling his legs straight so he couldn't move them. He then produced the gun from his back pocket and leaned over Hamish, pressing it to his temple. "That wasn't good behaviour Hamish. Try to pull anything like that again and I'll shoot you. Understand?" Hamish nodded. "Good." Then he stepped back and slammed the lid, plunging Hamish into darkness once more. He listened as the engine started again, felt the car began to move.

_He knows Father too…But Dad and Father used to solve crimes-They can find me, they know how…My daddies will find me….My daddies will find me…My daddies will find me…_

He repeated it to himself over and over, a prayer to comfort himself in the dark.

Oh poor Hamish! Next time-How will Sherlock and John cope when they realise their son has been abducted?


	4. Chapter 4-Gone

Hello again everyone! First off, I want to say thank you soooooooooooooooooooooooooo much to everyone who has been reading this fanfic! I hope you've been enjoying it! And a special shout out to the people who added this story to their story alerts-You are wonderful, amazing and pretty and I am so grateful to you! Now, before we get into this next chapter I want to warn you that there are a few scenes that some readers may find upsetting. Also, Auntie Beeb owns Sherlock, not little old me. Everyone well warned and still up for this? Great, then let's get started, shall we?

Chapter 4-Gone

"So, I want you to go get this prescription filled, Mrs Murdoch, and take one in the morning and one in the evening, understand?"

John held the folded piece of paper out to the elderly lady sitting in front of him, who frowned.

"Sorry, what was that dear?"

He sighed. It had been one of those days. The surgery had been rammed all day, two of his colleagues were off with the vomiting bug that was going around, and the meeting he'd had with Hamish's headmistress had left him behind with all his patients, not to mention in a foul mood.

"I SAID…"

"Oh wait dear. I think I need my spectacles…" She began rummaging in her giant handbag.

"No! Not again! You need…YOU NEED YOUR HEARING AID MRS MURDOCH!"

"What, dear?"

"I SAID…"

And suddenly Sherlock burst in through the door.

"I-I tried to stop him." Elsie, the surgery receptionist ran in after him in a panic. "I told him…"

Sherlock scanned the room. Then suddenly he was wrenching open cupboards, pushing past John to peer beneath his desk.

John reached out and grabbed hold of his shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock turned to him. "Hamish."

"Hamish? What? Look…I'm working! I have a patient!" He pointed to Mrs Murdoch who was gawping at them all in shock and Sherlock seemed to notice her for the first time.

"Oh, yes. Go away." He waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the door. "Go on. Now."

John nodded at Elsie, who guided the obviously shaken old woman out of the room. He turned back to Sherlock, who was on his feet again, glaring about the room. "Sherlock! What are you..?!

"

"Hamish!"

"What about Hamish? For Christ sake, Sherlock, he's not under my desk! He's at school…"

Sherlock straightened and turned to fix him with a troubled stare. "No."

And he felt his heart sink. "W-what…What do you mean no?"

"No. He's not there. Schooled phoned. Following an altercation with another pupil Hamish left his class at around 2:30, and was seen running from the premises. They searched the playground but couldn't find him and so contacted me at home. I had hoped he'd come to you but, obviously, not."

"WHAT?! THEN WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!"

Sherlock turned and caught his eye, and he saw the carefully constructed mask of calm indifference start to slip, saw the worry in his ice-blue eyes, so like their son's. "I don't know."

He marched from the room. Without hesitation, John snatched up his jacket and followed.

If John's mind hadn't been so frantic with worry he might have stopped to marvel at how quickly Mrs Thompson had changed from the hard-nosed battle-axe of that mornings meeting to the simpering, terrified looking woman they met at the school entrance. Beside her, a young woman with long chestnut brown hair stood snivelling into a tissue-Miss Stewart. John knew she was Hamish's favourite teacher-whatever had happened it had to be serious for him to run from her classroom.

"Dr Watson, Mr Holmes…" Mrs Thompson stepped forward hesitantly to great them.

"What happened?! Where is Hamish?"

"I am afraid Hamish left the school building…"

"So you don't know? He is a minor, we entrusted him into your care AND YOU'VE LOST HIM?!"

"Dr Watson, please don't shout…"

"OH I'LL DO MORE THAN BLOODY SHOUT!"

"T-there was a fight…" Miss Stewart turned to look guiltily at them. "I don't know how it started, I was busy, I didn't see…I pulled them apart…He said the others had been teasing him, but I didn't hear…I'm so sorry, I didn't have a chance to stop him. He ran so fast…"

"So you just let him go then?"

"I'm so sorry. I thought he'd just run home. I contacted the school office to report it. Mr Watson, I had a class full of eleven year olds…I couldn't just leave them…"

"HAMISH IS ELEVEN!" She flinched at his yell. Sherlock pushed between them, towering over her.

"Where is your classroom?"

She stared up at him, confused. "I-it's down the corridor." She pointed vaguely. "On the left."

He spun on his heel and marched off.

"Shit." John hurried after him. "Sherlock, wait! You can't wander round a primary school!"

"Matthew, John, my name's Matthew now." He stopped in front of a classroom door with "MISS STEWART-7A" emblazoned across a name-plate.

"Look, shouldn't we ring the police?"

"Those amateurs? For Christ's sake John, this is our child. Don't be ridiculous. Now, let's see…He came through here and turned left…"

"H-how can you..?"

"He'd just been in a fight, John. Headmistress's office is down the corridor on the right-he'd have to pass it to get out the front entrance. Hamish isn't stupid." He marched off down the corridor, John hurrying after him. "Ah." He stopped and pointed to the door at the end of the corridor that was hanging open. "Playground."

They stepped through into the cold air. The winter sun had almost set but he could still make out the swings, the slide, the climbing frame…and, beyond that, the outline of tree branches, silhouetted against the fading light. "The woods. Every time he wants to be alone, he goes to the woods." He felt himself sagging with relief. He had to be in the woods, he _had _to be. They'd go in and find him huffing beneath some tree, take him home, and ground him for the rest of his life. He'd shout, he'd whine, he'd sulk…but he'd be alright. He'd be home safe, and he'd be alright.

Sherlock nodded, and turned to Mrs Thompson and Mrs Stewart, who were just catching up. "We know where he is. Got any torches?"

They walked through the playground, following the torch beams towards the woods, the two women trailing curiously behind them. Sherlock paused at the edge of the trees, flicking the light of his torch over the damp ground in front of him before turning back to them.

"You two, wait here."

They didn't bother arguing with him, probably just relieved that he and Sherlock hadn't threatened to sue, John thought. As they stepped into the shadow of the woods he turned to him.

"Why did you ask them to wait?"

"They'd get in my way and destroy evidence. Look." Sherlock turned his torch beam to the mud beneath them once more. "Kickers shoes, child's size 2. Worn more on the inside of the sole…"

"Hamish." John sighed in relief. Then Sherlock moved the beam of his torch, and what he said next made his blood run cold.

"Another set of prints…Men's, size 13, thick soled…Some sort of utility boot."

"Old prints?" He looked at Sherlock hopefully, but he didn't meet his eye, instead turning to shine his torch between the trees.

"No. They follow the child's prints…"

"HAMISH!" John pushed past him, running frantically into the wood.

They followed the prints through the undergrowth, pushing between the trees and growing ever more frantic as the night closed in around them.

"HAMISH!"

"HAMISH!"

HAMISH! HAMISH, WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"HAMISH!"

Suddenly John caught his foot on something and stumbled. He stopped and stooped to pick it up. A muddy Kickers school shoe, child's size 2, worn on the inside of the sole…He used the torch to scan the forest floor around him, his heart jumping into his throat as the beam of light fell on a small pile of clothes beneath an old oak tree. He crouched down to lift the blazer that rested on top, taking in the primary school's badge embroidered on the front pocket before opening it to inspect the inside…and the woven name tape he had carefully stitched into it that September…

HAMISH WATSON-HOLMES-7A

He turned, holding it up to the light of Sherlock's torch and watching as Sherlock's expression changed from curiosity to horror. He took a deep breath, biting back his panic.

"Sherlock…I think it's time to phone the police."

Hamish wasn't sure if he was relieved or scared by the fact the car had just jerked to a stop. The muscles in his shoulders had gone from burning pain, to a slow dull ache and then to numbness. The rope around his ankles was too tight, slicing into the skin every time they'd swerved round a particularly tight corner. The muzzle made him feel like he would soon smother and he really needed to go to the toilet. The lid of the car boot was opened and the man glared down at him. He reached into his pocket and produced a flick knife, and Hamish struggled away from him with a yelp of fear as he leaned over him. The man laughed.

"Stupid brat."

He cut the rope that secured his ankles and lifted him bodily out of the boot, hefting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Hamish was too exhausted to struggle. Instead, he hung limply, watching the gravel beneath them change to carpet as they entered a house, then stairs, then concrete. The man dumped him unceremoniously into a plastic chair and he looked around him.

The room he was in seemed more like a prison cell or a bunker. It was windowless, lit only by a bare light-bulb. The damp concrete walls were covered here and there with peeling white paint and black mould. The floor was bare dusty concrete. To his right, terrifyingly, a set of chains hung from the ceiling, complete with manacles, like something out of a medieval torture chamber. To his left, rather bizarrely, a dirty bath stood, complete with shower and moulded shower curtain. A red plastic bucket sat beside it and above it a cracked mirror reflected his terrified face back at him. The only furniture in the room was the chair and a metal-framed bed with a bare, dirty mattress and what looked like handcuffs fixed to the headboard and footboard. He thought of his cosy bed at home, with its dark blue duvet and soft pillows…

"You like it?" He shook his head slowly. The man laughed his strange cruel laugh. "Right, let's get you tidied up." He went to lift something from the bed and then returned with a pair of scissors and what looked to Hamish like an electric razor. The man carefully unbuckled the muzzle and lifted it from his mouth. He swallowed, his jaw aching and his throat raw.

"P-please…Please let me go." He croaked.

And the man slapped him across the face with such force that his head jerked sideways. Hamish gasped in pain, too shocked to even cry.

"THAT WAS WEAK! STOP BEING WEAK!" The man pressed his face close to his. "Every time you do or say something weak I'm going to hit you, do you understand? I said, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes."

"Yes SIR!"

"Yes Sir."

"Good." Then the man caught Hamish's long black fringe in his fist. The scissors flashed. He dropped the cut hair onto the floor and moved to crouch behind him. The clippers began to buzz. "Over-long hair is untidy. We need to make sure you look the part. Don't move Hamish, I don't want to mess it up." Hamish sat silently, head bowed, and watched as a rain of black hair fluttered down into his lap and onto the dusty floor. The man talked as he worked, pushing Hamish's head this way and that, his tone almost conversational. "Just you wait; I'm going to train you up like a little pet. Soon you'll obey my every command, jump when I click my fingers. Oh I know you're blameless…But then so was Tom. And look what they did to him. I'll make a man of you boy, just you wait."

"Who's Tom?"

The man stopped at that, perhaps suddenly realising that he'd said too much. Then once more the clippers began to buzz. "Never you mind. And it's 'Who's Tom, Sir?' understand? I can put a bullet in your brain or slit your little throat tomorrow, bury you in the woods and no one will ever know. Your life is literally in my hands, so you speak to me with a bit of fucking respect."

"Yes Sir."

"Good boy." The clippers stopped. "There. All done." He lifted Hamish, his hands under his armpits, and carried him to the mirror, pushing him so close to it that his nose almost touched the glass. "What do you think?" Hamish swallowed. The thick overlong thatch of jet black hair he'd always hidden behind was gone. Instead the frightened boy in the mirror wore a close-clipped black crew cut that made his ears stick out and his eyes seem as big as saucers. He barely recognised himself and stayed silent, unsure of what answer the man wanted. None, it seemed, for he simply laughed and set him back down on the chair. "Yes, much tidier." He pushed the muzzle back into Hamish's mouth and did up the straps before moving to kneel in front of him. "Now, do you need to take a piss?" Hamish nodded. "Right." And then he reached down and pulled off Hamish's trousers and underwear in one fell swoop. Before Hamish even had time to react he'd tugged him to his stinging feet and steered him over to the bucket. "There. You can go in that." But how? His hands were still cuffed behind his back. Hamish stared at him in confusion. The man smirked, clearly enjoying every second of this. "What? Don't you know how?" He sneered. "You squat!" And at that moment Hamish saw him for what he was-A bully, just a bully, having fun pushing around someone who was weaker than him, hurting and humiliating someone to make himself feel good…And he knew how to handle him. After all, his Father had told him. "You squat! Go on, put your feet either side of the bucket…AND FUCKING SQUAT!" He kicked the bucket towards him and Hamish obeyed silently, putting each foot either side and squatting down, careful to keep his face expressionless. "Now piss!" He did. At the sound of urine hitting plastic the man laughed, almost hysterically and Hamish looked at him and thought '_I'm eleven, I'm just a child. And you've handcuffed and gagged me so I can't fight back. And you're an adult_ _enjoying_ _dominating me like it's some kind of an achievement. You're pathetic.' _"From now on, this is how you'll go. You'll squat down like the little animal you are, and you'll piss and shit in that bucket." '_I'm not going to cry in front of you, because that's what you want. No matter what you do to me, I'm not going to cry. I won't give you the satisfaction'. _He finished, shook himself and straightened up slowly. They stood and looked at each other, the man waiting for tears and Hamish wearing his 'resolve face', and in that moment it seemed, battle lines were drawn. Then the man caught hold of his arm and dragged him away from the bucket and across the room, shoving him backwards onto the bed. He dressed him, roughly tugging his feet through his underwear and the trouser legs. Then he caught his ankles and snapped the handcuffs that hung from the footboard tightly around them, the sharp steel settling into the lacerations already left by the rope and making Hamish gasp in pain. He caught hold of one of the muzzles cheek straps and used it to pull Hamish up into a sitting position before reaching behind him and unlocking the handcuffs.

"Ummfh."

Hamish wrapped his aching arms around himself, trying desperately to rub away the pins and needles as the man turned to drop the handcuffs on the floor. The muzzle was hurting him now; the metal buckles digging into his skin, the wet leather rubbing the sides of his mouth raw. Maybe, maybe if he just asked nicely then the man would take it off- just for a few minutes…He reached with trembling fingers to tug his sleeve.

"What?" The man turned to glare down at him with such venom that he shrunk away in fright. But his jaw ached so much and the straps cut so deep…He reached up to point to the gag.

"Ummmm?" The man looked confused, so he tugged at the straps before pointing at him, staring up at him appealingly. _Please…It's hurting me…Please, please take it off. Please, it hurts…_

"Oh," The man nodded as realisation dawned. "Uncomfortable is it?"

He nodded. "Umm hmmm."

"And you want me to take it off for a while, do you?"

He nodded frantically. "Umm hmmm!"

"And if I do, you won't make a sound right?" He nodded again. The man reached to touch the buckle beneath his chin and for a moment Hamish thought he was going to undo it…Then his hand was on his chest, shoving him back onto the mattress. He caught each flailing wrist in turn, snapping the cuffs on the headboard tightly around them before pressing his face close to his, his teeth bared. "DO I LOOK LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT TO YOU?!" Hamish shook his head, terrified at his sudden fury. "Good." The man then seemed to calm again. It was so quick, like the flick of a switch. He reached to stroke the straps of the muzzle almost lovingly. "I'm glad I found this. I can't stand the sound of whining and this shuts you up. So the only time it comes off is for eating or drinking…Or when I want you to scream for your daddy understand?" Hamish nodded again, fighting back tears. "Little boys should be seen and not heard. Now, for the first few days I'm going to keep you tied up here so if you need to go to the toilet I want you make this signal." He raised his left hand and made an L shape with his index finger and thumb. "Let's see you do it." Hamish copied him, the cuff tugging at his wrist. "Good. Now, I'm not going to be here at night so try and hold it. If you mess the bed I'll make you lie in it." He stood and then turned back to look at him, frowning in irritation as he took in his cut ankles and feet. "For Christ's sake-You're bleeding everywhere."

Hamish turned his face away from him, and closed his eyes. He was almost too tired to be frightened any more. "Goodnight Hamish. Sleep well…Oh wait, I forgot. Tom couldn't sleep…" And Hamish's eyes opened wide as suddenly a pair of earphones was slid over his head and the ear-splitting roar of metal music filled his ears. The light went out.

He waited until he was absolutely sure the man had gone before starting to cry.

John was frozen. Around him police officers moved in what seemed like slow motion, their voices merely static. He could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, going over maps of the forest with the search team, fetching Hamish's pyjamas for the dogs to get his scent, his comb so they could get DNA from the fine black hairs caught in between its teeth… and he knew that he should be doing…something…but for the first time in a long time he didn't know what, and that terrified him. He'd commanded men in war zones, faced down enemy fire, been shot at, had bombs strapped to him, he'd never been afraid- but now…now he was trembling like a child, he'd already thrown up… Hamish was gone…missing…and he wasn't in control, and he had no idea what to do to get him back, and he'd never been more petrified in his entire life because Hamish was out there naked, frightened and alone; maybe tied up; maybe hurt; at the mercy of Christ knows who and Christ only knew what they were doing to him, and that, horrifically, was the best case scenario and the only one John could think about because he couldn't bear to think about the alternative…

"The removal of his clothes suggests that the motive for the kidnapping is sexual, in which case we don't have much time. Most Paedophiles who abduct children to molest kill their victims within the first 48 hours."

Sherlock's words seemed to knock the breath from his body. He turned, bile rising in his throat to watch him moving among the police officers, putting himself in command. How could he say something like that with such utter detachment? How could he throw himself into the investigation with such enthusiasm, like it was just another case? Behind him two of the police officers were talking in hushed tones.

"So…This is a pretty odd set-up, right? Two blokes raising a little kid in the back arse of nowhere."

"Ummm, wonder where his mother is?"

"If he has one."

"Of course he fucking has one, you idiot. Maybe they bought him…y'know, you hear about these things happening…Either way, it's messed up. Two blokes raising a kid. I don't like it."

"Maybe the kid realised that. Maybe he's not missing at all, maybe he just ran away."

And John couldn't listen to any more. He whirled round to face them.

"SHUT UP! JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!" They both shrank away from the force of his sudden rage. "Look, I don't give a shit if you don't approve of myself or my partner. This is about Hamish. He's eleven. Our son is eleven. He likes insects, and climbing trees, and riding his bike and honeycomb ice-cream…He keeps badgering us to let him have a dog-a Jack Russell puppy…"

The two men looked at him, horrified. "We understand Dr Watson…"

"NO! NO YOU DON'T! Hamish is our son, he's just a little boy and he is missing! My son wouldn't run away! You saw those footprints! Someone followed him into those woods, and they stripped him and they stole him away like some monster from a fucking fairy-tale-except that this isn't a fairy-tale, this isn't even a nightmare, this is** real**-and while you're wasting time wondering if he ran away some sick son of a bitch could be torturing him! While you're hanging around here my son could be dying! And I don't know what to do, and I don't know how to fix this, so please…please, I'm begging you, just put your bullshit prejudices aside and help me find him!"

And suddenly Sherlock was at his side. "John…" He tried to take his arm, but John shrugged him off, turning to glare at him.

"And you! How the hell can you talk like that? What the hell is wrong with you?! This isn't some puzzle, some game that's now on… this isn't some case of yours to work out. This is our child! This is Hamish!"

Sherlock swallowed, taken aback by the sheer force of his venom and tried to lay a calming hand on his shoulder. "Because John, this is what I'm good at. This is what I _do."_

John shrugged it off. "Yes, this is what you **enjoy**. While I'm going out of my fucking mind with worry you're in your element, because you've got a puzzle to solve. You really are a machine." Sherlock's eyes narrowed at that and he spin on his heel, leaving him to sink, trembling, into a chair and put his head in his hands.

"Excuse me, Dr Watson?" A woman's voice. He looked up. The woman that crouched in front of him was petite and sallow skinned, with wavy dark hair. She wore a black suit and crisp white shirt and a police badge…but unlike almost every officer in the room who just looked grim her expression was full of sympathy and concern. "I'm Detective Annie Rush and I'm in charge of your son's case." He stared at her, confused. How could this tiny woman be in charge of anything? "Here, let me see." She reached for the framed photograph he'd set down on the arm of the chair and examined it with a sad smile. It was a picture of Hamish they'd had taken over the summer. He was smiling into the camera, the cobalt sweater he wore highlighting his huge blue eyes. "He's beautiful."

John couldn't help but smile back. Hamish was a handsome child. "I know." Then his smile faded as realisation hit. "Do you…do you think that's why he was taken?"

She shrugged sadly. "Perhaps. Perhaps his abductor just saw him and wanted him. We have to explore all possibilities…"

"He wouldn't run away. He wouldn't do that. He had no reason to. This is a loving home. We love our son."

"I know…But we have to be thorough. Is Hamish adopted?" He frowned at her. "Dr Watson, like I said, we have to explore all possibilities."

"He was born by surrogate."

"And his mother? She wouldn't have changed her mind maybe? Wanted him back? Or perhaps he decided to go find her?"

He shook his head. "No. She knew she was always welcome to visit him but she didn't want to. Said she didn't consider him hers…She's married. She has other children with her husband. We haven't had the chance to talk to Hamish about her properly. He knows he has a mother who helped us to have him, but he's never shown any real interest in meeting her."

"Still…We'll need contact details." He nodded. "And, I have to ask this…Do you or your partner have any enemies? Anyone who has threatened you in the past maybe? Anyone who may want to abduct your son in order to punish you, or get revenge?"

He looked up. Sherlock stood behind the detective. Their gazes locked, each seeing the horrible realisation reflected on the others face. "No…no. No we don't."

Unaware of what had passed between them, Detective Rush nodded. "O.k. Well, Mr Holmes, as you are a successful author we can't rule out the possibility that this is a kidnap for ransom. If that is the case then they'll probably contact you with their demands within 24 hours. Can I take this?" She held up the photograph. John nodded. "Thank you."

She made to stand up and he caught her wrist. "Just…just find my son o.k?"

"I promise we'll do our best Dr Watson."

Sherlock was so busy arguing with police officers that it was a while before he even noticed that John was gone, but when he did he knew exactly where.

He pushed open to door to Hamish's room gently and peered inside. And his heart ached.

John sat on Hamish's unmade bed, his back to him, gazing around him at Hamish's untidy things-the usual detritus of a childhood. In one limp hand he held Woof the Dog-the toy dog Mrs Hudson had bought for Hamish when he was born, now battered and grimy from years of use. Hamish now insisted he was too old for Woof, that eleven year olds were too big for teddies…But he and John knew that Woof still lived secretly under Hamish's pillow for the nights when he was ill, or afraid…Then they would creep in to check on him and find him asleep with Woof hugged tightly to his chest, one hand holding one of Woof's soft floppy ears against his cheek. John had insisted they never say anything; that it was normal for children to have comforters and that he would give up Woof when he was ready.

"John?"

He didn't turn round at the sound of his voice.

"He doesn't have Woof. He's probably frightened and alone. He should at least have Woof there…"

"John, look…I'll work this out…" He took a few steps towards him, but John's sudden yell made him stop short.

"THIS IS NOT A PUZZLE! IT'S OUR SON'S LIFE!" John's voice cracked and he reached up to swipe angrily at his eyes, as if he was crying. "This was supposed to be a new beginning for us. This place was supposed to be safe." He turned to look at him, his cheeks streaked with tears. "Oh Sherlock…What have you brought down on our heads?"

And he knew what John meant, that any enemies they'd ever had had been his, that if any of them had taken Hamish then he was to blame. And he wanted to tell John he was ashamed, and guilty, and he was sorry, and scared, and going out of his mind with worry, and that all he wanted to do was curl up on their son's bed with him and breathe in the boy's scent from the pillows and cry, like John could. But he didn't know how, had never learned. Too many emotions and they didn't solve anything, didn't help Hamish…He couldn't handle all this…all this _feeling_, it was too overwhelming. So he took refuge in logic…

"I'll solve this John. I'll fix it. I always do."

He'd hoped this would reassure him, but instead he just fixed him with a look of weary disgust.

"Just get out Sherlock. Please. Just get out."

So he did, closing the door behind him and leaving John to his grief while he went back downstairs to look for more clues, because it was the only thing he really knew how to do. And getting emotional would just fog up his mind and stop it from working. He couldn't let emotions get in the way.


End file.
